


Laws Of Attraction

by strawberrysunflower



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Found Family, M/M, Meet-Weird, One Night Stands, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-21 09:00:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30019332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrysunflower/pseuds/strawberrysunflower
Summary: When Phil turned twenty-nine, he wrote out a list of all the things he had in his life. One terraced house in Manchester, rented. Two housemates who still buy the cheapest alcohol on offer in Tesco. Three failed long-term relationships.After a spur-of-the-moment Friday night out on Canal Street, Phil ends up in the bed of a very handsome stranger. It’s a nice yet meaningless distraction from his directionless life. No big deal. Until he bumps into him again. And again. And again...
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 38
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to all my fellow adults struggling to deal with the horrible middle ground between wanting to grow up and achieve things in life but also not wanting to grow up and enjoy being dumb and reckless and youthful, yet not being able to do either because of the ongoing Panny D ✌️ You’re valid and I love you and things will get easier soon. Here’s an offering for you to live vicariously through - this is a fic set in the summer of 2018 when everything was fun and exciting and the World Cup was on and the UK had that insane heatwave lol. 
> 
> This is a repurposed story from something I wrote 6 years ago for a completely different fandom, because I am too braindead for new ideas atm (hopefully nobody recognises this or I’ll sob lol, please don’t tell me if you somehow remember my old writing days bc I do not want to Be Acknowledged). As always, this is a work of complete fiction - any characters in this are exactly that, characters, and have nothing to do with the real people they are loosely inspired by.
> 
> HUUUUGE thank you to Hannah ([@curlyswriting](https://curlyswriting.tumblr.com/)) for all the cheerleading and support, you are the goodest egg <3

Phil must have died in his sleep. That's the only explanation for the warm, blinding light piercing through his closed eyelids, and the feeling in his body like he's been run over by an eighteen-wheeler. 

He cracks one eye open, then the other. Ah. Not dead, then. Just waking up in a stranger's bedroom with a painful hangover. Of course. 

Phil grunts and stretches out the kinks in his back as he tries to get his bearings. He’s never before slept with a man who keeps a perfect line of miniature succulents along his windowsill. They’re the first thing he notices. Or, at least, they’re the first thing he notices after his inelegant fumble for his glasses, which have somehow gotten tangled up in the bedsheets.

This revelation is blearily followed by the white curtains, and the white walls, and the white fabric lampshade. The bedding surrounding him is soft and smells nice, like flowery laundry detergent and decent aftershave, and the room is startlingly quiet for the middle of Manchester. It makes a change from his own house, Phil muses, which seems to exude noise constantly. He could fall back to sleep so easily. He could, but he doesn’t, because even in his semi-conscious state he’s aware that there is nobody next to him in this lovely, cosy bed, and their absence might well be a gentle hint that he’s free to leave with no fuss and no small talk, if that’s what he wants.

 _Is_ that what he wants? Phil can’t say he’s too well-versed in one night stands. This isn’t his first foray into falling drunkenly into bed with a stranger, granted, but he’s still not completely up on the semantics of it all. Does he stay here, curled up, in the hopes that whoever he pulled last night comes back in for a morning cuddle? No; Phil may be bordering on touch-starved these days, but he’s not some kind of weirdo. Does he leave a note? Write his number and forwarding address out onto the fridge in alphabet magnets? Or does he just make a run for it while he has the chance, down a litre bottle of Lucozade on the bus on the way home, and crawl pitifully into his own (far inferior) bed?

The last one. Probably the last one.

It takes a minute or two to wipe the crusty gunk from his eyelashes, yawn, wet his gluey lips, and finally come to terms with his thumping headache, but then Phil’s up – unsteady on his feet, perhaps even a little drunk still, but up enough to gather his clothes from beside the bed. He only has to grab his jeans, boxers and socks, since he's clothed from the waist up. He must have kept his t-shirt on last night; at least it was just a plain stripy number and not anything imprinted with cartoon characters. That would have been embarrassing. 

Not that this is any _less_ embarrassing. Waking up in a stranger’s bed with the knowledge that he had sex last night in his _t-shirt_. With a long, tired sigh, Phil shucks on yesterday’s boxers and jeans.

It’s an odd bedroom, this. Lots of natural light, but not a lot of furniture. There _is_ a full-length mirror attached to the back of the door, however, so after pulling on his socks, Phil shuffles over to it. He makes a strangled noise of despair when he sees himself reflected back. Paler than usual, borderline grey, and greasy with sweat. God, what a catch. With an air of desperation, Phil rakes his fingers through his black hair, hoping the combo of perspiration and last night's salt spray will let it sit in some sort of semi-decent quiff.

His hair sags pathetically, looking entirely the way Phil feels right now.

Then again, it probably doesn’t matter. It’s more than likely that Dan – Dan? Dean? _Don?_ – saw him in a far worse state last night. Bits and pieces float through his mind as he sluggishly looks for his shoes. Being asked to dance, insisting _he doesn’t dance_ , but then Britney started and Phil had no other choice. Jostling Dan-or-Dean’s arm by accident, sending gin and tonic splashing over them both (there’s still a sticky line down the side of his black jeans when he checks). Going to buy him another drink, being pulled off to the toilets instead; kissing pressed up against the sink, a buxom drag queen wolf-whistling at them. Somebody told him he looked like Benedict Cumberbatch’s twink brother, but he can’t remember who. 

It’s been a while since Phil’s had a Friday night quite so wild, but it was fun. It made a change from takeout and _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ , at least. But now it’s time to go home, if only Phil could find his bloody shoes.

Ever the nosy bastard, Phil can’t help but have a little poke around Dan-or-Dean’s boudoir as he hunts for his trainers. Well, he could easily have been murdered last night, and could still quite easily be murdered this morning (but, with the way he’s feeling, Phil would welcome it). Surely that gives him some right to a bit of light investigation of the man he tripped - quite literally - into bed with? 

Lots of neat, tiny plants: succulents and bonsai trees and a few teeny potted cacti on top of the dresser. Lots of white, with splashes of concrete grey. Wooden bedside tables, only _nice_ wood, not the IKEA flatpack stuff that’s sat in Phil’s own bedroom. On one table, the one nearest where his bed-partner must have slept, is a black HydroFlask and a chunky hardback book, something modern with a monochrome front cover that Phil has never heard of. In the far corner of the room is a green velvet wing-backed armchair; his clothes from last night, all in shades of black and white, are thrown neatly over one arm, pointy Chelsea boots placed side by side next to it. Framed artsy prints sit propped against the wall, as though Dan-or-Dean hasn’t gotten around to hanging them up yet (although Phil somehow suspects they aren’t meant to be hung up, though he isn’t entirely sure why). Poking out from behind the headboard is what at first looks like a rug, but when Phil reaches out and touches it, it’s padded; a yoga mat.

It’s a nice room. Peaceful. There’s space to think in a place like this. But at the same time, it makes Phil a bit itchy, like he’s accidentally woken up in the showroom of an interior design store. Surely nobody is this adverse to collecting mementos and random junk?

Phil sighs, does another revolution of the room. Maybe all the crumpled clothes and used mugs and stacks of useless tat have been shoved hastily into the wardrobe, but Phil isn’t that much of a freak to check. Yet when he notices the black leather wallet, sat on the armchair as though it had fallen innocently from a jean pocket, he doesn’t think twice before picking it up and rifling through with his little rat hands.

For investigative purposes. That’s all.

A name! Dan it is, then. Daniel Howell, according to his driver’s license. That’s quite nice - it reminds Phil of the sort of name the second leg of a love triangle in a YA novel might have. And Phil can hardly be blamed for muddling his name because Dan only said it once last night, shouted over the thump of George Ezra’s ‘Shotgun’ when they were both already over the threshold of tipsy.

Further investigation produces a Lloyds bank card, creased train tickets from London Euston to Manchester Piccadilly, a gym membership, and a loyalty card for Wagamamas. It all reveals little, besides a penchant for Japanese food. Dan might not even use the gym membership, although Phil remembers him having quite a nice body. Broad shoulders, strong arms, these insanely long legs with thighs that Phil couldn’t stop biting at.

Then, suddenly, there’s the brush of the door scraping against wooden floorboards as someone enters the room. Not someone. _Dan_.

Phil panics, shoves the paraphernalia back into the wallet and chucks it onto the armchair again. Before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “I definitely wasn’t stealing!” which makes it sound like he definitely _was_ stealing.

Dan blinks at him with these big brown eyes, thick eyebrows raised heavenwards, and all Phil can think is _shit_ , because he is really attractive. He’s really attractive and he has a gym membership and damp-dusted surfaces. And he’s just caught Phil in the act of trying to steal his identity. 

“Right,” Dan says slowly, eyes flitting between the wallet and Phil, the towel he was using to scrub at his freshly washed hair lowering.

“Sorry. I just… I couldn’t remember if your name was Dean or Dan!” Phil says with a nervous little titter, and somehow that makes it worse. Thankfully, Dan just snorts at him and pads further into the room. He’s already dressed in a black hoodie and sweatpants, his feet bare, damp hair curling into tight brown whorls atop his head. 

“It's definitely Dan. And you're…” He pauses, winces, like he's suddenly in danger of being caught out. “Phil?”

“Yes! Yes, yeah, definitely Phil,” Phil replies, rocking slightly on his heels in his mismatch patterned socks. Dan glances down at them and smirks, a dimple forming in his cheek that makes Phil's heart stutter in his chest for a second. 

“You want a shower, or-?” Dan asks, throwing one thumb over his shoulder towards the hallway while simultaneously draping his towel over the end of his bed (he drapes it! Neatly! He doesn't just drop it in a damp heap on the floor!).

“Um. No. Thank you for the offer, but I'm fine. Actually, I should probably be getting back - I don't want my housemates to think I've been murdered or something.”

This is a lie. Phil desperately wants a shower, housemates be damned. He desperately wants to use _Dan's_ shower, because Dan has the air of somebody who has decent water pressure and uses fancy organic bath products. But at the same time, Phil does really want to get home; his entire body is screaming out for a long nap in his own bed. Dan nods in understanding, then gestures back to the hallway again.

“Can I get you anything to eat first?”

“That’s alright.” Phil’s stomach rumbles in protest. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”

“I don’t mind,” says Dan, but he shrugs. “Alright.”

He doesn’t seem _put out_ exactly, but he does seem a little confused by Phil’s sudden haste to escape. Maybe this guy isn't particularly hot on one night stand etiquette either. Maybe he's expecting Phil to stay, to luxuriate in his all-natural Madagascan vanilla body wash, to share some overnight oats and a superfood smoothie bowl with him. 

Does Phil want to spend the morning with a beautiful stranger in his beautiful apartment? Yes, obviously - he’s hit the jackpot here and it’d be a shame not to indulge in it. But at the same time his head is pounding, his stomach feels precarious and he knows he looks like shit; he just wants to lie horizontally on his own mattress, or on the landing floor if he doesn’t quite make it that far. 

“Do you know where my shoes are?” Phil asks, rubbing his fingers against his temple as if that’ll help to stop the nauseating ache. “And my jacket? It’s denim, I had it on last night.”

Dan nods as he pulls on a sock, hopping on one leg. “I think they’re in the kitchen.”

“The kitchen?”

“You got hungry and asked me to make you marmalade on toast. It was like I’d brought home Paddington fucking Bear or something.”

“Right. Of course I did. That’s embarrassing.” He pauses. “I actually _asked_ you?”

Dan grins, all dimples and straight, white teeth. “You don’t remember?”

“Barely,” says Phil with a sheepish laugh, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck, but as he says it, it starts coming back to him. He’d asked for bacon at first. Dan said he was vegan, there was no bacon. Phil was drunkenly flabbergasted, as though he’d never met a vegan before. He’d had a clumsy rummage through Dan’s kitchen cupboards and landed on marmalade instead. 

They go into the kitchen now but the evidence of last night’s midnight snack has been cleaned away already. His denim jacket sits abandoned over the top of a stool pushed under the breakfast bar, and his black high-tops are on the floor. He quickly puts them on and slips his arms into his jacket, even though he can tell there’s blazing sunshine outside. On the black marble-effect worktop is an open jar of organic peanut butter and a packet of cinnamon and raisin bagels. He could eat the lot, but he’s already refused breakfast now. God, why has he got to be so awkward and _British_ all the time?

“Right!” Phil says, forcing himself out the kitchen door. “I’ll get out of your way. Thanks for, uh… having me, I guess.”

“Thanks for having me too,” Dan laughs, and it’s a lovely sound, full-bodied like it comes from the depths of his chest. He leans against the doorframe. “D’you live far away?”

“Oh, um…” _Quite possibly_ is the correct answer, because Phil has no sodding idea where he is. Instead he waves a heavy arm in no particular direction and says, “Out towards Hulme.”

“Bit of a distance then,” Dan replies with a small smile. “Make sure you look after yourself. You alright getting home?”

“Yeah, of course. There’ll be buses. And if I get the wrong one and end up in the middle of nowhere, there's always Uber.”

“Very true. Failing that, you could set up a new life as a solitary hermit in the countryside.”

“God, that'd be bliss about now.”

Dan smirks and drops his eyes, scuffs his foot against the floor.

“So last night, that was… it was fun, right?” Dan asks, frowning, then blinks at Phil like he’s looking for agreement. And it _was_ fun, from what Phil can tug from his alcohol-encrusted memories.

It started off a bit lacklustre – after Phil apparently ate his weight in marmalade on toast they stumbled into Dan’s room, but all they did was collapse onto Dan’s rumpled bed sheets, too drunk to do much else than chat stupidly and kiss deeply. Dan didn’t seem to mind, at least. He laughed a lot and kissed well, and after a welcome ten minute nap their hands started wandering, clothes unsheding, mouths exploring the exact right spots until they’d both found release. Then they conked out again till the morning.

And now here Phil is, dithering around in the poor man’s hallway and trying not to pass out across the hardwood floor.

“It was fun, yeah,” Phil confirms, smiling. Dan offers a pleased grin in return.

“You have my number, right?”

Phil takes his iPhone out of his jean’s pocket and gives it a little shake. “Sure do.”

“Awesome,” Dan nods, pushing himself back from the frame. “So I’ll see you around?”

“Yes, yeah, of course,” Phil babbles; ridiculously, he throws two thumbs-up, then cringes at himself and heads towards the front door before he can inflict any more damage. “See you later.”

Dan closes the door on him, and a key turns in the lock. Phil wanders listlessly along the corridor for a few moments, gathering his bearings as his fuzzy brain begins to clear, giving way to an unsettling mixture of hunger and nausea. They’re several floors up, it seems; he opts out of the stairs, worried that he might fall head-first down them at this rate, and takes the lift instead. A severe middle-aged woman joins him halfway down, and she shoots him a wary glance out of the corner of her eye, as if he might puke all over the walls any second. When he blinks tiredly at himself in the lift’s mirror, he can see why. He looks like that moment in a zombie movie, when someone’s been bitten but they’re trying to hide it. That shower might have been a good idea after all, but the best he can do for now is cross his arms over his chest, slouch against the wall and duck his head down, trying to make himself as small and unimposing as he can.

When Phil gets outside, the heat of the sun bears down on him, making him feel sweaty and uncomfortable before he’s even begun making the daunting trek back home. Dan’s flat, it turns out, is part of an old Mancunian mansion block, with tall turrets of burnt orange brick and far too many windows that reflect the blinding sunshine into Phil’s eyes. It’s fairly central, Phil supposes. Dan must have a decent amount of money, but then again, that much had been obvious even before Phil stepped out of the flat. Wing-backed armchairs and raisin bagels?

Phil stumbles along the pavement, heading towards the nearest bus stop that he spots while also desperately Googling the number that’ll take him close enough to home. There are a few texts from Jimmy, he sees; they get more stupid and incoherent the later on in the night they were sent. He shoots him a message now to let him know he’s on his way home, and to stick the kettle on. He plans on sending Dan a quick message too while he’s at it - just something short and sweet, something that offers the possibility of future plans should Dan want it, although Phil won’t be holding his breath. Nobody ever seems to want to make future plans with him.

And then, scuppered. He comes to a halt at the bus stop, flops bodily onto the tiny plastic bench, and realises with two scrolls through his contact list that he has accidentally lied to Dan. He doesn’t have his number at all.

That’s a shame. But nevermind.

\---

The number 219 is _packed_. You can tell it’s coming to the end of the school year; the bus is full of exasperated mothers laden with screaming kids, huddles of teenagers cackling over memes on their phones that Phil couldn’t even try and understand, and old ladies tutting at them and muttering in their gruff Northern accents.

Luckily for Phil, he has an entire row to himself. Clearly his pasty skin and pathetic expression has put anyone else off sitting next to him. Thank God.

Phil tugs his phone out of his pocket and opens up Twitter, then switches to Instagram when Twitter gets too depressing, then finally settles on YouTube when he can’t take people parading their lives around anymore. There are three new videos in his subscription box for him to catch up on - a film review, a long-form documentary piece on the Zodiac killer, and a video game playthrough of _Monster Hunter_ _World_. Phil hums, tempted to play that one now despite his lack of headphones, but ultimately locks off his phone and puts it away again.

The July heat is stifling, making his t-shirt stick uncomfortably to his damp back. He’s already taken his jacket off, choosing instead to clutch it to his stomach like a security blanket, but there’s absolutely no fresh air on this bus so it’s done him zero favours. Defeated, Phil rests his temple against the glass window and stares out at the city as it trundles by.

He always feels this way after a night out now: drained and mopey and _sore_. There used to be a time when he could go out all night and still be ready to get back on it the following evening, when he was young and desperate to impress at university. Now, in the last dying breath of his twenties, Phil would rather somebody sniper him down to take him out of his misery. It’s only made worse by having to make his first walk of shame home in _months_ , dressed in last night’s sticky clothes and mouth tasting like the bottom of a bird cage.

A bump in the road forces Phil to clamp back a pitiful moan as his stomach lurches. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and shuts his eyes, trying to ward off the nausea rising within him. He never used to suffer with hangovers quite so badly after weekend-long sessions in university. About a year ago he seriously thought he’d developed an intolerance to alcohol, because a few glasses of wine would knock him sick throughout the entire next day. Jimmy had smacked him on the back as he hugged the toilet bowl and cheerfully declared, “You’re just getting old, pickle.”

 _Getting old._ It’s enough to send a shiver down Phil’s spine. He doesn’t think about it on a day to day basis, when he’s ordering takeaway for the third time that week, or finishing his fifth hour in a row on Fortnite, or mixing his whites and darks in the wash and ending up with tie-dye clothes. But it’s moments like this that really drive it home. Phil will be the first one in his friendship group to turn thirty, in just over six months from now. Last night he _felt_ almost thirty, trapped amidst groups of baby gays screeching ‘yas queen!’ and doing secret bumps of coke in the men’s bathroom; it’s probably why he gravitated towards Dan, another actual adult amongst the hoards of Zillenial kids trying to slut drop to the Vengaboys (a group, Phil realises with a sickening twist in his stomach, they would have been too young to properly remember).

God, now he really _does_ feel grim.

In the end, the overpowering heat and the jostling crowds beat him. Phil has to get off the bus a good ten minute walk from his house, out of genuine fear that he might puke on the silver-coiffed old dear in front of him. The walk will do him good anyway. Clear the cobwebs, get the juices flowing. That is until he catches sight of himself in a shop window, and he all but runs back home, desperate for a cup of coffee, a toothbrush, and a long shower (in that order).

Jimmy is sprawled out across the sofa watching the World Cup weekend highlights when Phil finally staggers across the threshold. He tilts his head back against the armrest so that he’s staring at Phil upside-down, then grins and says, “Well, if it isn’t Casanova himself!”

“You’re hysterical,” Phil mumbles, yawning into the back of his hand. He wanders across the living room and into the kitchen, animal brain taking over. He needs food, and he needs it _now_. Jimmy’s voice follows him as he roots around the cupboards for something decent to snack on until he can climb into bed, open up Deliveroo and order himself a big fuck-off burger.

“There’s coffee under the cosy for you.”

Sure enough, when Phil lifts the slightly stained tea cosy he finds his favourite mug waiting for him. It’s canary yellow, chipped at the base now, imprinted with the words ‘kiss the librarian’; a subtle _Buffy_ nod that he bought just before university in some mad whim to search out fellow hardcore fans. He cradles the steaming drink between his hands as he slurps at it, as if it’s nectar from the gods.

“Have I told you recently what a beautiful man you are, James Hill?”

“Ooh, don’t tease me with your honeyed words. Now get your fantastic arse back in here, I want to know everything that happened last night.”

After picking a handful of chocolate Hobnobs out of the biscuit tin, Phil shuffles back into the living room, then collapses onto the sofa next to Jimmy. He’s not really in the mood for small talk, just wants to stand under the scalding shower spray until the pain goes away, but Jimmy pokes him in the leg with his bare foot and asks, “So whereabouts did you wake up this morning?”

“About twenty minutes away. In one of those old mansion blocks, not far from where Sophie used to live.”

“Ooh, fancy. Pretty upmarket for the likes of you.”

Phil snorts around a mouthful of biscuit, spraying crumbs over his already stained jeans. He’ll definitely need to bung these in the wash later on.

“So rude.” 

Jimmy just chuckles, pokes his foot into Phil’s thigh again to show he’s joking, then curls his legs underneath him to sit Buddha-style on the sofa. “So go on then, spill. It’s not like you to go slipping off into the night with strange men. I only saw him from the back when I caught you tip-toeing away - the tall fella, right?”

“That’s him,” Phil nods after failing to stifle another yawn. “Dan. Not from round here originally, he’s got a dead posh accent. He was nice.”

“Nice, huh? Nice like _nice-_ ” Jimmy waggles his eyebrows, “- or nice as in how my nan is nice?”

“Please don’t mention your nan and my sexual conquests in the same sentence.”

“No, you’re right, that was a bit fucked up,” Jimmy hums in repulsed agreement. They sit in silence for a few moments, Jimmy watching the catch-up of the group stages on TV, Phil spacing out as he stares absently at the plastic potted plant he bought on a whim one day to brighten up the lounge. It doesn’t work. It looks small and lopsided on their coffee table, lost amongst the sea of plain magnolia walls and slightly battered IKEA furniture. He’s tugged sharply from his reverie when Jimmy taps him in the knee.

“D’you think you’ll see him again?” Jimmy asks, aiming for nonchalance but missing it by a country mile. Phil shrugs, shakes his head, picks his fingernails against the sticky line of gin down his thigh.

“Doubt it. I don’t think I made the best impression this morning.”

“You do look a bit like an extra from _The Walking Dead_ , mate.”

“Every man’s fantasy,” Phil hums, too tired and queasy to be properly offended. 

They hear the sudden banging of footsteps coming down the stairs from the second floor, and cheerful, tuneless whistling echoes around the hallway. Chris saunters into the lounge, wearing grey sweat shorts and an oversized t-shirt that probably belongs to Rhys, his new boyfriend. His hair sticks up at odd ends, like he’s stuck his finger in a plug socket, and when he catches sight of Phil he grins wolfishly. His chipper attitude is almost enough to turn Phil’s tender stomach.

“Philipé! Made it back okay, then?” 

“Seeing as how I’m sitting here and not lying dead in a ditch somewhere, I’d say so,” Phil replies, draining the last of his coffee. Chris takes his mug before he’s even removed it from his lips and heads off to the kitchen.

“I’m making bacon sandwiches for me and Rhys, do you boys want one?”

“Please,” they call back simultaneously. Phil grins despite himself, thinking back to Dan’s kitchen last night. He remembers it now, screeching at him over his veganism - “what do you _mean_ you don’t eat chicken nuggets?!” - then grabbing his arm and pretending to bite him, all while Dan shrieked and squirmed and giggled until he was breathless. It really was fun, on reflection. 

“What are you smirking at?” Jimmy asks, peering at him suspiciously. Phil shakes his head and tries to fix his expression into something more neutral.

“Nothing.” 

As they wait for their food, Jimmy holds a languid patter of conversation that Phil struggles to keep up with. He loves Jimmy dearly - they’ve been best friends for the better part of a decade - but Phil’s social battery is nearing the end of its life now. Thankfully, Chris comes through to save him with two plates stacked high with delicious bacon-y goodness.

“So which of Manchester’s finest did you get off with last night?” Chris asks with a grin as he passes the plates over. Phil laughs despite himself and shakes his head at them both. 

“You two are like those freaky twins from _The Shining_. I’ll tell you later, alright? I feel like death, I just want to lie in a comatose state for a while.”

“Alright then, Gandalf, keep your secrets. But I _will_ be giving you the third degree over dinner tonight,” Chris says with a threatening finger jabbed in the air. 

“Fine, okay, I’ll brace myself. How’s Rhys this morning?”

As well as being Chris’ newest boyfriend, he’s also his first boyfriend. There had been a night about three years ago, over two-for-one cocktails in the Slug & Lettuce; Chris had been double-fisting his drinks since they’d arrived, as if he was on a personal mission to make himself as drunk as possible, before blurting out that he was bisexual and promptly bursting into tears. The rest of them had just blinked at him, until PJ dryly commented, “Well. I guess that makes me the token straight now.”

Rhys is nice. He’s tall, taller than all of them, and built like a brick shithouse, but he has the personality of a sweet, Welsh teddy-bear. They met at work about two months ago, and they haven’t been apart since. Chris’ expression changes now at the mention of him, a slightly moony look to his eyes, mouth tilting up into a fond smile. It’s almost sickening. 

“He’s okay. Better now, anyway - he threw up by that tree outside Bar Pop, right over this poor drag queen’s shoes. She nearly drop-kicked him into the canal.”

Phil winces in sympathy, then forces himself to his feet, plate clutched in his hand. “Right, thanks for the sustenance, lads, but now I’m off for a snooze. Where’s Spike?”

“I put him out about twenty minutes ago,” Jimmy says, scratching absently at his nose, eyes still fixed on the television.

“Ah, nice one. I’ll take him for a walk in about an hour.”

And with that, Phil finally mounts the stairs to his bedroom. He almost collapses onto the carpet before he gets to his actual bed, but at least has the common sense to pull off his trainers, his sticky jeans, and his denim jacket first (he dumps them in a pile on the floor, before a flash of sudden, strange guilt hits him when he remembers Dan’s neatness; Phil picks the clothes up and places them on his desk chair instead).

Finally, _finally_ sleep. Phil flops down onto his big, beautiful bed and snuggles up amongst the covers, even if it is stiflingly hot in his bedroom as the heat of the midday sun blares through the skylight window. In a brief moment of clarity he actually sets an alarm for an hour’s time, but he needn’t have bothered. At that moment he hears the loud, booming woofs and thundering footsteps of his beloved mutt, before the door burst open and Spike jumps up onto Phil’s bed, barking for England.

“Spike!” Phil moans, trying to push the daft dog down again. Spike just licks his face, and the dog-breath smell this early in the morning turns his stomach. Phil gives him a hearty shove and he eventually clambers back down onto the floor, tail wagging excitedly and tongue hanging out.

“Sorry!” Jimmy hollers up the stairs. “He said get your lazy arse out of bed because he wants to be walked now. His words, not mine!”

Phil groans and buries his face into the pillow.

\---

Spike is a mongrel. He’s a good boy, loves nothing more than being cuddled and fussed over, but what Phil might describe as ‘friendly’, others would perhaps be inclined to call ‘manic’. Either way, he’s a colossal idiot. Even by dog standards. His favourite hobbies include barking at shadows, walking head-first into doors and eating toilet roll. And although you’d be hard pressed to find a more loyal dog, it would be equally as difficult to find one quite so cowardly.

He stands near some bushes in their local patch of greenery, glancing anxiously between Phil and a pigeon, as though expecting the pigeon to attack.

There _is_ a park a ten minute walk away, a proper one with paths and trees and a big lake in the middle. The problem is, Spike likes to savour their walks there; a trip to the big park is not complete unless Spike jumps into the duck pond and frightens all the mallards, or gets himself lost in the surrounding woods when Phil lets him off his lead and he darts away, or rabidly sniffs the arse of every other dog he happens across.

Frankly, Phil can’t be bothered with it all today. Although he is feeling a bit better, now that he’s downed two paracetamol with a pint of Ribena, had a shower, brushed his teeth, and switched into a pair of jean shorts and a fresh t-shirt. The heat bearing down on him no longer feels suffocating, and instead the early afternoon sun sits pleasantly in the deep blue sky, keeping watch over what is less a park and more a scrub of grass two minutes from their house.

Poor Spike. He shouldn’t have to put up with pitiful walks just because his owner decided to go out and get rat-arsed last night.

Phil wasn’t even planning on going out; he’d been quite content to settle in for the night with a Domino’s pizza and some anime, maybe nip to their local Co-op for a bottle of wine if he really felt the desire to drink. But as the evening crept along, his resolve began to crumble. 

Jimmy started blasting his uni playlist in the living room, and cracked open the bottle of Tesco own-brand rum they keep in their drinks cupboard; Chris spritzed on Calvin Klein and fixed his hair in the hall mirror, shaking his hips and singing along loudly. And although Phil felt no strong desire to get drunk - only slightly buzzed on the pre-drinks the others were having if anything - he wanted to _get ready_ with them because that’s always the best part, isn’t it, in the end? But before he knew it, he was shoving on his denim jacket and trainers, sliding into the back of the taxi squashed beside Chris and Rhys, patting the house keys, wallet and phone in his pockets, drawing cash out from the ATM by Tribeca Bar. He just got swept up in the excitement and spontaneity of it all.

It’s fine, of course. He’s an introvert at heart, but Phil doesn’t mind indulging in his extroverted housemates’ whims every once in a while. It’s fun, even, to let loose now and then, to dance badly to Britney Spears and do Jӓgerbombs that send his heart racing and wake up in strangers’ beds. It’s only now, the day after, when Phil is feeling the effects of post-drinking blues creeping in, that he regrets it.

Spike trots over with a leafy stick and drops it at Phil’s feet. Phil obliges; he picks it up and hurls it, then glances about in embarrassment when it doesn’t make it very far.

The thing is, Jimmy and Chris and PJ can have the same wild night as him, and in the morning wake up in the loving arms of their partners, or at least get a taxi over to their partner’s place and curl into them. They can chalk this up as a lads weekend, and make plans for the next one with their other halves: cinema nights or restaurant dates or just quiet evenings cuddled up together. Meanwhile Phil will be left alone in his room with a family sized bag of popcorn and Spike farting in his sleep.

Phil has had them in the past. Relationships. He’s even enjoyed them at the time, before they’ve come crumbling down around his ears. There’s a certain safety and stability to them that one night stands and week-long flings just don’t possess. But they always end in tears, once people realise that Phil’s weirdness is not just a cute character quirk but a genuine ingrained part of his entire self. It’s just not worth the heartbreak anymore. 

Phil sighs, then whistles for Spike to come back. Perhaps it's a stupid thing to dwell on, hungover and exhausted as he is. Perhaps he should stop saying he doesn't care about finding ‘the one’ and get around to not caring. Or perhaps he should actually start putting himself out there, like Jimmy keeps suggesting. Both options sound like an enormous amount of energy that Phil just doesn’t possess right now.

He attaches Spike’s lead to his collar and his mind shifts to the day ahead, to the whereabouts of his laptop charger, to whether or not he can justifiably afford another splurge on Deliveroo. Everything else is boxed back up, conveniently, if only temporarily, suppressed. 

They walk back home, and Spike only barks at an oddly-shaped shadow once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know what you think, it always makes my day! And come say hi on tumblr - [@strawberry-sunflower](https://strawberry-sunflower.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I messed around with the dates of football matches to line up better with the fic, I'm not gonna lie lol. Also some characters in this are based on real people and some are completely made up simply because I have that power (but they are all still characters at the end of the day!)
> 
> Thank you so much to anyone who's left this fic a bit of love so far, it means the absolute world 💕

Jimmy has this really odd-looking tattoo that stretches over the majority of his left bicep. It’s supposed to be a lion, to represent Leo, after his Australian hippie ex-boyfriend got him into astrology for a grand total of six months when he was twenty-three. It would be fine, except it looks less like a lion and more like Falkor the Luck Dragon from _The Neverending Story._ When Phil pointed it out to him, Jimmy had just shrugged defensively and said, “So? My Chinese zodiac is a snake, and that’s almost _like_ a dragon, right? Maybe it’s a combination of the two.”

It’s not. But if that makes Jimmy feel better about his questionable life choices, Phil will happily go along with it. 

The ugly lion/luck dragon is out on show today, because Jimmy is wearing a loose lilac-coloured vest top. Its big, doleful eyes keep staring at Phil from across the table, and he can’t tear his gaze away. At least until England scores a goal and the whole pub garden, including Jimmy, erupts into loud, guttural cheers; Phil jumps so hard he almost sends his strawberry daiquiri splashing down his shorts.

Sunday is normally Big Shop day. They all pile into Chris’ car and head to their local Tesco Extra, armed with their collection of reusable plastic bags and a shopping list they undoubtedly divert from once they reach the crisp and sweet aisles. But today Jimmy had bounded into the lounge where Phil and Chris were waiting for him, and announced, “D’you fancy getting the bus into town instead?”

“Town?” Chris had repeated, like he’d been asked if he wanted to take the bus into a sewage works. “Today? In this weather? Are you mad?”

“I just thought we could do something different, that’s all. Mooch around the shops a bit, stop off for a frappuccino…” Jimmy sighed when he realised his ruse wasn’t working. “Okay, fine. It’s the England match today, the knockout stages have started, and Nick just text me to say he’s in the pub.”

“Why don’t you go meet Nick, and Chris and I will get the shopping in?” Phil had suggested, until Chris rounded on him with an expression of pure betrayal.

And so that’s how Phil finds himself in the beer garden of the Hare & Hound, with Jimmy, Chris and their respective boyfriends, sipping cheap cocktails that are mostly ice and pretending to know what the offside rule is.

“I'm going for a top-up,” Rhys announces in his delightful Welsh accent during half time, heaving himself off the bench. They’re all squashed around the same picnic table; every other seat is taken, and people are now starting to flop out on the grass around them, desperate to soak up the World Cup excitement and 26°C weather. “Anyone else?”

“Get me something gay and fruity,” says Chris, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. “We need to remember this place in future. You can get pissed on less than a tenner.”

“The drinks are only cheap because there’s no guarantee that you won’t get beaten up in the process. By the patrons _or_ the staff,” says Jimmy, glancing warily at a burly looking man collecting empty glasses from the next table over. The Hare & Hound is a bit spit-and-sawdust, more so than their usual haunts. It’s full of clusters of middle aged men, England football shirts clinging to their beer bellies, or families with kids who are running around trying to throw Fruit Shoots over each other. If any of their group even mentioned Cher or _RuPaul’s Drag Race_ too loudly, they’d probably get their heads kicked in.

Phil doesn’t really mind it, though. It’s in a prime location so the sun always seems to blaze down on them no matter where it hangs in the sky, and there's a big projector screen that they’re showing the match on, and Phil only has to spend 50p to get a handful of Minstrels out of the sweet dispenser.

Jimmy downs the last of his mojito then turns to Nick, pokes his cheek and frowns as though he’s in pain. “I can’t decide whether or not to get drunk.”

“It’s Sunday,” Nick points out with a smirk, his arm coming up to loop around Jimmy’s shoulders.

“Yeah! Sunday is Drag Cabaret at Charlie’s Club.” He shakes his hands and starts singing, “Come to the Cabaret!”

“No, thank you.”

“Fuck’s sake, Nicholas. Chris?”

“We’ve got plans tonight. Sorry, bud,” Chris says, slapping Rhys’ meaty thigh as he tries to navigate his way back onto the bench while clutching several full glasses in his arms and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps between his teeth. Jimmy rolls his eyes at him, and then his pleading gaze turns to Phil.

“Pickle. My best pal. The light of my life.” 

“ _Definitely_ not,” Phil laughs, shaking his head. “Not Charlie’s. It’s too depressing.”

“They’ve got cheap cocktails! And that God-awful Liza Minnelli impersonator might be there, that’s always a laugh!”

“Believe me, no rendition of ‘All That Jazz’ is worth a night of having my ass pinched by old men. Or old women, for that matter,” Phil says, pointing his straw emphatically at Jimmy. “Plus I’ve got work tomorrow. Just because _you_ don’t have to roll out of bed until midday to get to work, doesn’t mean the rest of us have the privilege of getting drunk on a Sunday.”

The looming threat of Monday morning isn’t the only reason why Phil doesn’t want to go out tonight. Frankly, he just… isn’t in the mood. He’s still struggling through the lingering lethargy of yesterday’s hangover, still only on his second daiquiri while everyone else is on their third or fourth drink of the afternoon. He’s enjoying being out in the sun, and he’s even getting sucked into the buzzing World Cup vibes, but there’s a very large part of his brain desperate to hole himself up in his room and spend the rest of his lazy Sunday snuggling Spike and catching up with _Love Island_.

Jimmy pouts like he’s been told he’s not allowed to go to Disney World, pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, and pulls his phone out of his shorts’ pocket to send a text. “Alright, well, Peej is coming by in a bit. I’ll see what he’s up to tonight.”

“PJ won’t want to tag along with you to sodding drag cabaret,” Chris snorts, digging into the packet of crisps open on the wooden table. 

“Fine. I’ll go with him to one of his weird little straight bars. I’m not picky.”

PJ, the fourth Beatle to their little quartet, moved out about a year ago to get a place with his girlfriend - now fiancé - Sophie. They live in a decent, modern flat in Spinningfields, and although it’s not where they plan on staying forever, it serves its purpose for now (plus it’s a great spot for parties, being slap bang in the city centre). He’s the youngest of all of them, but somehow, enviably, he’s also the one with his life the most put together. 

“Afternoon, kid,” Jimmy greets him as PJ slides onto the bench next to him. “How’s tricks?” 

“Yeah, not bad. Soph is on at me about getting a dog again. She keeps sending me links to dog Instagram accounts and then staring at me from across the room.”

“You two don’t hang about, do you? New flat, engagement, now a potential fur baby on the way,” Jimmy snorts, popping a crisp into his mouth. “Hey, d’you fancy coming out tonight?”

“Let him get a drink first,” Nick laughs, standing up to get a round in, but PJ is already pulling a face at Jimmy’s suggestion.

“Ugh, no thank you. I'm still recovering from Friday. I don’t know why I let you lot do this to me - ‘come out for some drinks with us, we’re going down to Tribeca, maybe Walkabout if we’re really feeling masochistic’. Three hours later and I’m being smuggled into G-A-Y pretending to be Phil’s boyfriend.” PJ turns to Phil now, places one hand on his forearm. “Not that I don’t love being your pretend boyfriend for those five minutes, of course.”

“I appreciate it, Peej.”

“Well, someone might as well be your pretend boyfriend, for all the good you are at finding a real one,” Jimmy smirks, clearly pleased with his little jibe. “Get this, right - Phil left not long after you did on Friday. With a _man_.”

“Ooh, someone get the News of the World on the line, we have a scoop,” PJ deadpans.

“Shut up, you sarcastic little gremlin. _Our_ Phil, going _home_ with somebody, that’s a big deal! Only here’s the real kicker-” Jimmy turns to him now, cocks his head to one side, gives him a tight smile that is scarily reminiscent of Phil’s mother. “Did you get his number, Phil?”

“Wh- I-” Phil stutters, then sighs. “No.”

There are collective smirks and eye rolls from around the table, even from Rhys, who has barely known him all of two months. 

“You really are the worst,” Chris says with a wry laugh before taking a sip of his violently orange drink. Phil gapes at him for a solid five seconds. 

“ _How_ am I the worst? How do you know I even wanted his number in the first place? He could have been a total weirdo who's shit in bed for all you know.”

“And was he?”

“Posh but nice, that's what you said to me,” Jimmy comments, inspecting his nails.

“Yeah, alright, he _was_ really nice and we had a good night. But I still don't see why it matters that I didn't get his number.”

“It's not that you didn't get his number. It's that you make excuses every time someone eligible comes along,” Jimmy explains, placing both hands on the table as if he’s staging an intervention. “Take that guy I tried to set you up with from work. What was wrong with him?”

“He was rude to the waiter, you _know_ I hate that.”

“What about Soph's friend from uni?” PJ pipes up.

“Right, okay, he spent the whole night talking about how obsessed he was with French new-wave cinema, and then laughed at me when I said one of my favourite films was _Paranormal Activity_.”

“ _Phil_ ,” Jimmy groans, throwing his head back so dramatically he almost collides with the young boy racing past them trying to score a goal with an old Brewdog can. “Fine, if you're not going to indulge me by going on an actual real-life date any time soon, at least give us all the horny details about your tall, posh conquest.”

“Please don't,” PJ mumbles into his glass.

“I'm fine, Jimmy, thank you.”

“Did you actually fuck?” Chris asks suddenly, loud enough that the family on the next table over shoot him a unanimous frown. “I don’t assume anything anymore, not since you told us about the time you went home with a guy and just watched _Ratatouille_ with him.”

“He had the DVD on his coffee table so we got talking about it, and before I knew it he'd put it on. It’s a good film! Anyway, I did sleep with him after it'd finished.”

“Ooh, nothing like an animated rat to get you in the mood,” Jimmy says, wiggling his eyebrows. He leans forward, props his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand. “What about posh boy?”

God, he really isn't going to let this go. Phil rolls his eyes and wipes condensation away from his glass of rapidly melting strawberry ice. 

“We did… stuff.”

“Stuff,” Jimmy repeats sarcastically. He waves a hand around and lists off, “Handjob, blowjob, what?”

“ _Jimmy_ ,” Phil hisses, ducking his head because there's definitely a group of middle aged men giving them the side-eye. “... Bit of both.”

Jimmy opens his mouth, clearly not intending to let it go until he gets every sordid detail, but at that moment Colombia scores a goal, to the loud disappointment of everyone in the pub. Jimmy’s head whips around to face the projector screen and he yells, “Oh, you _bastards!”_

Call him a traitor to his own nationality, but Phil’s grateful. At least now the spotlight is finally off him, because once their table simmers down they start talking about Gareth Southgate and the state of England’s defensive squad. Phil can lean back, turn his face up to the sun, and take a minute of silence to just breathe.

\---

From nine to five, Monday to Friday, Chris works in the HR department at Manchester Sea Life Centre. It’s not the most glamorous job, and certainly not something Chris picked because of his stellar public relations skills or desire for water-cooler gossip with older women. But it serves its purpose; it means he hasn’t got to sign up for unemployment benefits while his shaky acting career begins its tentative take-off.

That’s where he met Rhys. Not at the Sea Life Centre’s HR department, but behind the scenes of the stage show Chris was cast in a few months ago. He’s playing Crowther in _The History Boys_ , the biggest role he’s seen to date ever since leaving university with a 2:1 degree in drama, not unless you count the bit part he had in _Hollyoaks_ about four years ago (they still have the screenshot of him in the background stuck to their fridge with magnets, as if Phil and Jimmy are his proud parents). 

Rhys is a sound engineer. The whole beginning of their relationship was spent pressed up against each other, while Rhys fitted wires and mic boxes to Chris’ body, like something out of a teen romance novel or potentially a porno. Rhys is easily pushing 6’5”, has to duck to get through doorways, and he navigates through life one shoulder at a time because he’s as broad as he is tall. He talks fondly of his days playing scrum-half in secondary school, and he listens to a lot of classic rock, and his hobby is fixing up old cars, because of course it is. Jimmy had once described him as a ‘himbo’ during a night out, and Rhys had looked delighted, before turning to Phil and mumbling in his ear, “What’s a himbo? Is that like a sex thing?”

He’s the complete opposite to Chris in every way possible. Chris is tall, but he’s wiry too, like he’s been cobbled together out of pipe cleaners and Silly Putty. He loves nerdy references, and video games, and Disney movies. They look like chalk and cheese as they walk together out of the pub garden and down the road, after the football match’s thrilling conclusion where everyone - even Phil - had exploded in joy at England’s surprising victory. But when Rhys announces he’s got to head off because he wants to work on restoring his vintage VW Beetle before date night tonight, he leans down and kisses Chris in full view of everyone in the street.

“Text me when you’re on your way round, yeah?” Rhys says in such a quiet, fond voice that it almost makes Phil weak at the knees. 

“Will do. I’ll pick up some garlic bread. And wine, obviously.” After a second brief kiss, they finally let each other go and Rhys heads off in the opposite direction, throwing a wave at them over his shoulder.

Chris turns around, a small, dopey smile on his face. It drops suddenly when he realises everyone else is staring at him.

“What?”

“You two are disgusting,” Jimmy announces, wrinkling his nose then pushing his sunglasses back up when they slip. He takes off down the road, leaving Chris spluttering and stumbling after him.

“No we’re not! He’s making beef cannelloni for me tonight, it’s his own recipe and he really wants me to try it.”

“Oh my _God_ , Christopher,” Jimmy groans. “If it were anyone else I’d ask if that’s a euphemism for something, there’s _got_ to be a pun in there about him giving you his beef. You’re more married than me and Nick, and we’ve been together for nearly two sodding years.”

“Christ, has it really been that long?” Nick sighs regrettably, as he, Phil and PJ follow them at a more reasonable pace. 

They carry on bickering all the way up the high street, until eventually Nick has to break away from the pack bringing up the rear and join them, to stop them from physically throttling each other. That leaves Phil to walk step by step with PJ. 

He has his head bent, tapping away at his phone. Phil watches him out of the corner of his eye for a moment.

“You texting Sophie?”

“Yeah,” PJ replies, and his lips draw up into a faint smile. “I'm letting her know that the match is finished and I'm just grabbing something for dinner on my way back.”

“I'm surprised she was happy to let you join us, especially as you were out all Friday night too.”

PJ frowns and lets out a confused snort of laughter. “First of all, we're both adults, we don't need each other's permission to go anywhere. Secondly, she bloody loves it when I'm out of the house. It means she can catch up with that God-awful _Love Island_ programme without me tutting at her every five minutes.”

“Right. Yeah. Load of shite, that,” Phil mumbles, and he feels an embarrassed flush tinge his already pink cheeks - at least he can use his sunburn as an excuse if anyone were to ask. PJ just glances sideways at him, then laughs and nudges their shoulders together, before they carry on their walk in companionable silence.

Phil loves PJ, in a way that’s different to how he loves Jimmy or Chris. PJ always seems to be on Phil’s level - he’s quiet where the other two are loud, and thoughtful where they’re pig-headed. They’ve spent many an afternoon together, just the two of them lounging out in the living room doing their own thing, which is something Phil’s been craving ever since PJ moved out. It’s not quite the same when he’s trying to play video games on his laptop and Jimmy keeps throwing popcorn at his head, or Chris hangs over the back of the sofa to peer at his screen and back-seat drive his gaming techniques. 

Phil knows PJ won’t be staying here in Manchester forever. There’s already the tentative talks of moving, to London or Brighton, somewhere very Southern and very far away. Whenever Phil thinks about it, it makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. So he packs it all up in another neat little box, puts it beside the one marked ‘failed relationships’, and lets it sit hidden away until it inevitably becomes a problem for Future Phil instead.

They follow Jimmy, Chris and Nick all the way past the shopping centre and down Church Street, until they finally stop their hearty argument about Chris’ public displays of affection, and that’s only because Chris chucks a sudden right and forces them to follow him into Tesco.

Mercifully, the air conditioning in the shop is on full blast. A welcome breeze brushes over Phil’s heated skin, and he lets out a content sigh and raises his arms above his head.

“D’you have to get your garlic bread now?” Phil asks, letting his arms drop and scratching lethargically at his stomach under his Moomin t-shirt. The combination of the hot July sun and more rum than he was intending to drink today has made him feel lazy and hungry, and he just wants to go home for a nap and a sandwich. 

“Even if the lovebirds are busy tonight, _we_ still need food, numb-nuts,” Jimmy says, sending a well-aimed kick into the back of Phil’s right knee so that he wobbles to the side. “Unless, new plan… we order a takeaway tonight.”

“Ooh, I like your thinking.”

Nick snorts and claps them both on the back. “Every now and then you actually have to eat something green, boys.”

“Like green Fruit Pastilles?”

“Or green Smarties.”

“Hilarious. Morecambe and Wise are trembling in their graves at your double act power.”

They split off into groups to browse the aisles: Jimmy and Nick head towards toiletries, Chris and PJ shuffle over to the frozen section, deep in conversation, and Phil meanders around the snack aisle because he’s not certain he’ll be able to survive until dinner if he doesn’t eat something soon. A sharing bag of Kettle Chips and a bumper pack of Maltesers get tucked neatly into the crook of his elbow, and he’s just about to head back to Chris and the trolley when he spots Dolly Mixtures for 40p, which promptly get added to increasing pile in his arms. He’ll take them into work tomorrow to share with Bryony - if he doesn’t eat them all before he gets back home.

Phil walks down the main strip, turning his head from side to side to try and capture a glimpse of his friends, like he’s a child who’s lost his parents. And then Phil freezes. Because half way down the cereal aisle is Dan Howell.

He’s not exactly a hard one to miss, towering a good head and shoulders above everyone else milling around him. His soft, brown curls are squashed, sadly, under a black baseball cap, and he’s wearing a black t-shirt and this pair of black and white square-checked shorts that make his legs go on forever; they show off a painful pink line down the backs of his thighs and knees, as though he nodded off while lying in the sun on his front. It’s quite endearing, the knowledge that Dan, a man who keeps such a pristine home and seemingly doesn’t get hangovers, is just as bad at topping up his sun cream as Phil.

Not that Phil’s staring or anything. Except, really, he is. He watches Dan choose between Special K or honey nut Shredded Wheat like he’s a particularly moronic statue, until an old lady bashes her trolley into the back of his legs and tuts loudly at him for getting in the way.

Dan turns upon hearing the commotion, and Phil bolts. He doesn’t stop until he comes across Jimmy and Nick, standing amongst the condoms and lubricants and having what seems to be quite a heated conversation.

“Phil!” Jimmy says, beckoning him over. Nick huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Don’t-”

“No, shut up, Phil might know. We’ve got a serious question for you.” 

Phil, grateful for the distraction, raises his eyebrows in curiosity as he walks towards them.

“What’s up?”

“Okay, be honest, because we need opinions. Have you ever tried warming lube before?”

The rest of the shopping trip is spent avoiding Dan. Not because Phil _wants_ to avoid him, not really - truth be told, if he were on his own, he might pluck up the courage to make small talk with him in the vegetable aisle, admit to the embarrassment of not actually having his number so that Dan doesn’t think he’s just a rude arsehole. Unfortunately, Phil isn’t on his own. He’s with his loudmouth friends who were just talking about Dan’s oral sex techniques not two hours ago. That might be a bit embarrassing.

Phil manages to keep up his stealth routine until they reach the check-out. As he’s loading a fortnight's worth of shopping onto the conveyor belt, he glances around absent-mindedly - and spots Dan on the next counter over, slightly ahead.

“Shit,” he hisses. This instantly gets the attention of his friends, who all stop shifting groceries in order to stare at him.

“What?” Jimmy asks, rather obviously. Phil grabs two tins of beans and slams them onto the conveyor belt with more force than necessary.

“Nothing. It’s nothing, honestly.”

“What’s nothing? Who do you keep _staring_ at?” Chris is getting in on it now, swivelling on the spot, as if he’s seconds away from pulling a whole sodding telescope out of his back pocket to really make the search easier. After deciding it isn’t anything immediately worth his attention, he reaches back into the trolley, then curses loud enough for the lady working on the till to glare at him. “I forgot the bloody garlic bread! Stay here a sec, I’ll go get it.”

While Chris sprints off in the opposite direction, Phil uses this opportunity to have a sneaky glance at Dan again. He’s got one hand tucked into the back pocket of his shorts, the other tapping out a random rhythm on the counter top as he waits for his food to reach the front of the queue. He’s got big hands, strong fingers, and Phil is ever so slightly mesmerised by the movement of them for a moment.

He jerks himself out of his thoughts, tears his gaze away to scrutinise Dan’s shopping instead. He isn’t in the least bit surprised by what he’s buying: lots of fruity tea, Alpro soya yoghurt, oddly Mediterranean choices like pimento-stuffed olives and red pepper hummus. Although, when he squints harder, Phil notices that there’s nothing there that makes up a proper meal. It seems as if Dan is just as inept as cooking as he is, judging by the frozen pizzas and microwaveable pasta dishes he can spot amongst the mix.

Suddenly Dan’s hand darts out, and he grabs a Mars Bar from the confectionary baskets on the side of the conveyor belt, then very innocently places it at the front of the queue. Phil can’t help but smile at that.

“Seriously, who are you staring at?”

PJ’s quiet voice beside him makes him jump. Phil blinks at him, then whips round to glance at Jimmy and Nick; thankfully they're too busy packing their first scanned groceries into bags to notice what Phil and PJ are talking about. Phil gives a wild shrug.

“No-one!”

“You’re a shit liar,” PJ smirks, head tilted to one side. Phil heaves a defeated sigh and nods at Dan’s back. 

“You see that guy over there?”

“Who? Lurch from _The Addams Family?”_

“Shut up!” Phil hisses, slapping his arm. He waits a few moments to make sure Dan doesn’t turn around, then continues. “Yes, him. That’s, uh… that’s Dan. From Friday.”

“Dan from Friday?” PJ frowns, before recognition passes over his face. “Your tall, posh sexual conquest!”

“Oh my God, can you _not?”_

They watch him together for a few moments. Dan reaches the front of his queue, makes pleasant conversation with the lady behind the till as he starts bagging up his items, laughs at something she says so that his dimples and the little creases at the corner of his eyes make their wonderful appearance. Phil faces his own shopping again, out of fear that a.) Dan will turn around and spot him, or b.) Phil really will do something stupid like squawk out a strangled bird call to get his attention.

“You landed a good one. If my opinion means anything,” PJ says thoughtfully from beside him, leaning his back against the counter. “Are you going to go talk to him?”

“I couldn't think of anything worse,” Phil mutters, rubbing his knuckles just under his eye because his contacts are starting to go all dry and itchy. 

“I thought you said you liked him?”

“I did. I _do_. But you should have seen his flat, Peej, it's like an Instagram influencer's wet dream.” Phil sighs and grabs one more glance at Dan over his shoulder. He really is stunning, more so now that Phil can properly appreciate him without an intense hangover pounding through his body. Dan's a little sunburnt across his face, and light freckles are starting to dust his nose and the tops of his cheeks. He thanks the shop assistant sincerely, even tells her to have a nice day just before he gathers up his shopping bags. Phil drops his gaze again. “Nah, there's no point. He's so far out of my league, it's almost funny. It’s like he’s a professional baseballer and I’m… playing Year Seven rounders.”

PJ snorts at his weird metaphor, which morphs into a long, drawn out sigh, like he wants to argue back but just doesn’t have the energy. “Suit yourself.”

“Oh, and don’t mention this to Jimmy, alright? He’ll only make a fuss and invite Dan over for cake and coffee morning or something. Chris neither, he _definitely_ can’t keep a secret.”

“Understood, boss.”

PJ stays true to his word. He doesn’t say a thing once Chris returns with his sticks of buy-one-get-one-free garlic bread, or when they reach the end of the counter and help Jimmy and Nick pack away the groceries. Phil sneaks one last look at Dan’s retreating back as he leaves the shop while the others are deep in conversation. 

And then, as if pulled by some sort of cosmic string, Dan turns. He peers around the throng of people before his eyes suddenly lock onto Phil’s; he frowns and squints as he tries to gauge whether it really _is_ Phil, and then he opens his mouth like he might try calling out to him from across the store. 

It’s only for a second or two, before the hoards of tired Sunday shoppers surge out of the main doors and Dan gets lost in the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone go thank Hannah ([@curlyswriting](https://curlyswriting.tumblr.com/)) for this chapter even existing, I was THIS close to giving up on the whole thing because I've had such a bad brain week but she's just the world's best cheerleader and the most lovely, supportive bean 💕 also thank u to Louise for the extra reassurance, you are also a wonderful bean 💕
> 
> Please lemme know what you think, it makes my day to hear from you!! Also come say hi on tumblr - [@strawberry-sunflower](https://strawberry-sunflower.tumblr.com/)


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